


Devil May Care

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Community: daredevilkink, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4496925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Daredevil version of Matt is a stubborn dickhead, and Foggy isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. Until he decides that he’s reached that point of no return, and that’s when it gets ugly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil May Care

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the daredevilkink prompt “[Foggy gets mad](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/3230.html?thread=7367838#cmt7367838)”. And I hope it still satisfies the prompt, because it isn’t so much in line with most of the comments made on that post. But it just… kinda happened in my head this way. Please don’t hate too much on Foggy, okay? 
> 
> Some of the GSW stuff is a shameless redux of episode 1x05 of “Complications”, because I know little about bullet wounds and resulting hematomas, and I just hope Matt Nix did his research.
> 
> +-+-+-+-+

“No, Matt, this is very much _not_ okay.”

Foggy’s voice was at that point between exasperation and desperation, the one he tended to use only in the presence of the Daredevil version of his best friend. Or, in this case, in the presence of the person who was in limbo between Matt Murdock and Daredevil. Murdevil—which made an appearance every time the limitations of Matt’s body raged against the sheer willpower and determination of his nightly alter ego.

Matt swayed dangerously, tilting his body towards the exit of Foggy’s small apartment.

“I need to go back out there,” he snarled, the horned mask in one hand, now hovering dangerously close to the leg that was slick with blood, a thin rivulet of it still oozing from the bullet wound in his thigh.

Irrationally, Foggy focused on the droplets of blood dripping into the fibers of his carpet, wondering if there was any kind of special detergent he needed to buy to remedy this particular mess.

“You need to do no such thing,” Foggy pressed on. “You’re bleeding freely. Onto my carpet, by the way. You can barely walk. You probably need surgery to dig that bullet out of your leg, or, I don’t know, sew shut the artery that thing might have hit on the way. Fuck this, I’m gonna call Claire.”

“No,” Matt insisted, then took a tentative step. And another.

“Okay. Fine.” Foggy’s tone matched the what-do-I-care gesture he made with his arms. “Go back out there. Bleed to death, see if that helps the people of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m sure there’s a nice dumpster downstairs you can hide in if things get a little tricky. Maybe, if you’re lucky, there’s a Latin American immigrant who will find you and drag you out of there for another last-minute save.”

“Foggy…”

“ _Foggy_ me all you want. Seriously, Matt, I don’t even know why you keep coming here if you’re gonna do whatever the hell you want anyway.”

Something unpleasant flitted across Matt’s face, Foggy could see it—a suggestion of regret, and guilt, and all the unspoken words between the lines. Their fucked up co-dependency all rolled into one grimace that was tangled up in the bruises and the scars and Matt’s unseeing eyes.

And then Matt clenched his jaw and kept walking. Each low groan when he put weight on the injured leg hit Foggy somewhere in the vicinity of his gut, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. They’d been doing this dance one too many times, and he was done.

Foggy turned around and walked away, went into the bathroom for lack of a better escape route, because the bedroom would have meant walking by Matt. The door closed behind him with a decisive click of the lock, and Foggy felt his muscles tremble with something ugly and intense he was no longer able to rein in.

The mess was instantaneous when he angrily swept his arm across the glass shelf above his sink. The sound of the various items toppling to the floor got lost in the scream matching the force of his action. It bounced coldly off the walls of the small room.

Tiny glass splinters of the half empty aftershave bottle skidded every which way across the bathroom tiles, and the concentrated sweet, musky smell that hit his nostrils almost made Foggy gag.

He growled in frustration. Marci had given him the aftershave for his birthday. It was a loving gift, because for some reason he couldn’t quite discern, she had known it was the brand he really liked but couldn’t afford. The brand that Matt had once hidden in an off-hand remark he liked because it was unobtrusive and subtle and nice.

Now Foggy wondered if he’d been using too much of the stuff all this time, had constantly overpowered Matt’s hyper-acute sense of smell. And he growled again because, fuck, _why_ was he even advocating for the boneheaded idiot he might have once thought of as his best friend?

The little shit didn’t deserve any of this, because why would he? His complete lack of self-preservation was almost certainly getting himself killed (right _now_ , for all Foggy knew), and then Foggy would be left picking up the pieces, and he’d be the one to have to organize the funeral and the eulogy, and, oh, he’d also fall to a million fucking pieces because a world without Matt Murdock was just not something he ever wanted to live in.

Emotion washed across his face, knitted his brows together, and then coalesced into an angry punch of his fist against the mirror cabinet. There was an unpleasant crunch, and Foggy’s reflection distorted into oblong, fractured shards that merged into the round shape of the impact where his fist had just been.

 _Shit, that hurt!_ he thought as he flexed his fingers. It was instantaneously followed by a, _Fuck you, Murdock!_ And then he said it out loud for good measure, silently hoping that wherever Matt was, he could hear it.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Matt was gone. There was the telltale trail of blood drops, and, shit, no detergent in the world would get that out of the off-white rug in the corridor without residual stains.

And because he couldn’t help it, he went to his apartment door and peered out into the stairwell, somehow expecting the crumpled form of his friend halfway down the stairs. But there was only emptiness and more blood drops, and Foggy sighed.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

He slammed the door shut behind him on the way back in, kicked a shoe aside that flew across the corridor and landed with a soft thud a few feet away.

Foggy hated this like he had never hated anything in his life. The constant rationalizing of Matt’s actions, the frustration of not being able to reconcile them with his own feelings, the helplessness and the grating worry that he’d receive that one phone call where Karen or Claire or some hospital would tell him that unfortunately they had very bad news for him.

He half-heartedly switched on the TV, flicked through the channels, tried to stay focused on an old travel show about some British celebrity trying to cross the Sahara desert. He found it meant nothing to him, and he switched the TV off again with a grunt. Reading was out of the question. He wasn’t hungry. He texted Marci but didn’t get a reply. He paced his living room for lack of anything else to do.

 _Fuck you, Murdock!_ kept repeating in his head on a bad loop of a broken record.

He almost jumped when the phone vibrated in his pocket. A picture of Matt with one of his goofy, sunglassed grins jiggled across his screen, and Foggy’s thumb hovered over the green button for a second before he moved it to the red one to slide the call into oblivion. He told himself that he shouldn’t be regretting this.

Because, screw you, Matt, did you really think we could talk right now? And if the guy was, in fact, actually bleeding out somewhere, well, there was always Claire. Or 911.

He knew he was rationalizing again, and he despised himself for it. The phone vibrated again, and it was a text telling him he had a voicemail. He hesitated a moment, then went against his better judgment and listened to it.

The first thing he heard was Matt’s ragged breathing. Then, “Foggy?” A groan. “I may need help. Can’t…” Another groan. “Walk. I’m, uh, losing blood. I’m in Hell’s Kitchen Park. Help would…” More panting. Once. Twice. “Be much appreciated.”

Much appreciated, huh? Yeah, that didn’t sound like the mortal danger kind of distress call. Then again, this was stoic beyond belief, I-may-be-dying-but-I’m-totally-fine Matt Murdock. “Call 911, asshole,” Foggy said aloud to his phone. Then he dialed Claire’s number.

She picked up after the fourth ring, and Foggy got straight to the point. She did too, because, yes, she’d be right there.

When Foggy got to the little park, now shrouded in darkness, Claire was already there, kneeling next to a sedentary Matt who was leaning against a tree trunk. Matt’s face looked too ashen, even in the dim night light.

“How bad is it?” Foggy asked flat-out.

Claire was already pressing a gauze pad onto the wound that went from white to red too quickly. Matt let out a groan as she pressed harder.

“From what I can tell, the bullet’s still in there,” she said. “And from the amount of swelling, my best guess is that it's pushing up against the artery. He’s lost a lot of blood. He needs a hospital.”

“No,” Matt pressed out between clenched teeth. “No hospital.”

Foggy wanted to punch him unconscious and then call 911. Another groan from Matt transformed it from a fleeting thought to an actually viable option.

Claire’s voice took on an exasperation similar to Foggy’s. “So then what do you propose we do, Matt? Huh? Perform battlefield surgery right here, with no light, no tools, and a shit-ton of pathogens all around? That’s a sure-fire recipe for suicide.”

“Help me up,” he said to Claire between panting breaths. “Your apartment’s not far. I can make it there.”

“Like hell you can.”

His mouth drew into a pained grimace reminiscent of a grin. “Watch me.” He was already pushing himself off the ground.

Claire gave a sigh, lifting her arms in resignation as she came to Matt’s help.

“A little help?” she said to Foggy.

Foggy stood rooted to the spot for a long moment, then pushed away all the anger. There was a _lot_ of resistance he had to fight through.

Somehow, miraculously, they managed to drag a half unconscious Matt without (hopefully) being seen, or at least without being overly suspicious. The two blocks seemed indeterminably far, but in the end, with near Herculean effort, Foggy deposited Matt on Claire’s couch with her trying to tuck a bath towel underneath his leg.

Foggy took two steps back as he watched her get to work. Matt had his eyes closed, lids squeezed together, forehead frozen in a map of eternal furrows. Foggy clenched his jaw and just stood silently.

“Gotta warn you, Matt,” Claire said. “I’m an ER nurse, not a trauma surgeon. This could get ugly. And it will hurt.”

“Just do it,” he told her, and she got a vial and a syringe out of her medkit. Where she got the drugs from, Foggy could only guess.

Matt’s eyes snapped open, his hand shooting up. “No!” he protested. “No drugs.”

“It’s lidocaine for the wound site. At least let me use that. Because, trust me, it’s still gonna hurt plenty.”

He seemed to be consenting to that, and she prompted, “Deep breath.”

Matt’s whole body bucked with the pain as she injected the syringe right into the wound track. Foggy winced along with it. Strangely, fascinatedly, he had to keep his eyes on the whole disastrous endeavor, couldn’t tear himself away for reasons he couldn’t quite discern.

When Matt relaxed against the couch somewhat, Claire cupped his cheek in her hand and turned his head slightly towards hers. “Matt, I need you to listen very carefully, because this is important.”

There was a hum of acknowledgement somewhere in the back of his throat, and she urged, “You can’t move while I get the bullet out. If I hit an artery, this could get fatal real quick. Do you understand?”

He nodded. To Foggy, she said, “Can you hold his leg?”

It took a second or two to register. He didn’t want to, yet he silently complied. The suit felt rough against his palms, there were tiny projections in the material that pointed backwards. He’d never noticed that before. He pushed Matt’s leg into the seat cushions.

Claire said to Matt, “Okay. I’m gonna insert the forceps now. Remember: Don’t move.”

Foggy could feel Matt’s muscles coil with resistance as Claire slid the metal object into the flesh wound. The muffled scream came out like a heavy moan, but Foggy knew Matt was only barely keeping it together, the fucking, self-deprecating idiot.

It took her a long time to dig around in there. Matt let out a strangled sound that sounded like, “ _Gkcha_ ,” when she finally extracted the tiny metal object.

She placed the bullet gently on the ground, then met Foggy’s gaze. “We need to get him out of the suit before I put in the stitches. Can you help me with that?”

Foggy let go of Matt’s leg, the severed connection shaking something loose. How often had he done this now? How many more times would he have to do it? He felt the anger bubble up again, unbridled and too close to the surface.

He stumbled backwards—one step, two. “No,” he whispered. “Sorry, you’re on your own this time.”

He turned to go, was prepared to walk away, but her voice stopped him. “Really? You’re gonna leave him here now?”

Foggy’s voice was full of acid. “Leave him? No. He has you.”

“We could use your help, Foggy.”

He let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah. I’m sure you could. But I’m done with this shit. Cause this? I saw this coming a mile away. Pretty much the second he dropped into my apartment with a fucking bullet wound in his leg, bleeding all over my carpet, insisting he go back out there after a few moments’ rest. Despite my urging him not to, despite his _body_ screaming not to. Cause he’s a fucking idiot. And I’m done.”

Matt never said a word through all of it, although Foggy could tell he was alert enough to hear every word. Foggy turned on his heels and left, not looking back. And strangely enough, he felt nothing.

+-+-+-+-+

When he got back to his apartment, the drops of blood had turned from bright red to a sort of burnt sienna. Great. Now it was going to be even harder to get them out, but he decided he didn’t want to deal with that now.

He haphazardly stuffed a few clothes and necessities into a duffel bag, zipped it closed with a resolute determination. He’d call his parents in the morning, ask to grant him asylum for a few days. He needed to get out of the sordid, polluted city for a while.

+-+-+-+-+

He’d managed to get tickets for the midday flight to Ohio, and he didn’t tell anyone. The law firm could do a few days without him. He knew it was a shitty thing to do, but maybe Matt deserved a taste of his own medicine.

His parents welcomed him with open arms, although he could see the worry on their faces. He gave them his best reassurance that he was fine, although he did have to urge them that, if Matt called, they shouldn’t tell him he was here.

Anna frowned at him, then patted him on the arm. “You boys get into a fight?”

He wanted to give her the sarcastic huff he had at the tip of his tongue, because, yeah, she didn’t know half of it, but he held back. “Something like that,” he evaded.

Her smile was sad. “You were always so close. Wanna talk about it?”

God, yes, he did. But he’d already told Karen no, and so he told his mother no. Because no matter how much of an altruistically destructive jerk Matt was, he knew that this wasn’t his secret to tell.

Anna left it alone and baked apple cinnamon pie instead. She gave him an extra helping of custard to go with it. The way to a man's heart was through his stomach, that had always been a motto in the Nelson household.

By the time Foggy had unpacked his things and taken up residence in his old room, his cell phone showed five missed calls from Matt and two from Karen. His grim grin was maybe a bit too malicious when he deleted the caller log and mumbled, “Serves you right, asshole.”

There were texts, too. He read the first two.

“I’m sorry foggy can we talk?”

“Foggy where are you? Please call me back”

He didn’t bother with the others and switched his phone off completely. Off the radar. No distractions. Also, fuck you, Murdock.

It took until the next day for Matt to call the Nelsons. Foggy gave his father the death stare when he picked up the phone, and Edward complied with Foggy’s request not to tell Matt he was here.

Anna had that sad, disapproving look on her face that Foggy knew all too well. They would only lie once. He knew if Matt called again, especially if his mother answered the phone, they would not do it a second time.

He hoped Matt wouldn’t call again.

+-+-+-+-+

Foggy stayed for four days and flew back Sunday afternoon. Edward gave him a pat on the back, Anna a hug and thrust another piece of pie into his hands. He loved his parents very much, realized he needed to visit them more often outside of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

By the time he got back to his apartment, it was well past 10 pm. There’d been some technical trouble with the plane, and a one-hour delay turned into four. His head was throbbing and he just threw his bag into the corner to unpack the next day.

For the first time in days, he switched on his phone. A few more missed calls. No messages. Thanks for the concern, douchebag.

When Monday morning rolled around, Foggy wasn’t exactly sure how he’d figured it would be a good idea to just fuck off and not even leave a message for Karen. Cause if he showed his face again in the office, there’d be hell to pay.

And it was.

“You just leave for four days and not tell us?!” she yelled at him.

He was still wearing his jacket, hadn’t even had the chance to put it on the hat stand before she cornered him.

“I needed some time away,” he feebly protested.

“And, what, you couldn’t give us a call? Send a quick text to tell us you’re okay? Did you even _see_ we called you?”

“Yes.”

“We were _worried_ , Foggy. We thought something had happened to you. I even started calling the hospitals.”

So Matt didn’t tell her, huh? And, well, something _had_ happened. Maybe not something as drastic as Karen imagined—in the grand scheme of things. But it wasn’t as if he’d just disappeared on a whim.

And now he felt bad. Calling the hospitals, that was… Shit. He should have thought this through.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I was upset. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

She softened a little. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re okay. You _are_ okay, right?”

He shrugged. “More or less.”

“More or less?” she frowned.

A sigh escaped his lips. “I’m fine, Karen.”

“And this wouldn’t have to do with Matt limping around the office like a kicked puppy these last few days, would it? And please don’t tell me it was another car accident.”

“It wasn’t, but you probably should ask _him_ about that.”

Her voice became quiet, sad. “Are we back to this again?”

His anger flared up again. “No, we’re not _back_ to this again! We never left this. Because Matt? He was a boneheaded fucking idiot back then, and he may just be even more of one now.”

And screw the little shithead, because of course he had to enter the office at this exact second. Foggy froze for a split second, but wearily watched Matt. Who, of course, didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, because he’d probably already listened in to their whole conversation from two blocks away.

Foggy felt the temperature in the room drop at least two degrees. “Matt,” he said by way of a greeting that couldn’t be any more frigid.

Matt tilted his chin up a notch. There was a dangerously provocative undertone in his voice. “Foggy. There you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” he intoned matter-of-factly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” As if Matt didn’t already know. Keeping up this stupid charade for Karen was getting really old.

“Good,” Matt said, his voice carefully neutral before he leaned his cane against the wall in the corner and ducked into his office. The limp was hard to miss, but Foggy felt little pity. The guy had brought that on himself.

Foggy sucked in a long breath. Well, at least they got _that_ out of the way. He went into his own office and closed the door.

There was little interaction all day. Karen knocked a few times and came in, asking work-related questions. She always closed the door after her.

Matt never showed, and Foggy never reached out. The only time he saw him all day was when they both happened to get a fresh cup of coffee. Foggy wondered if Matt had chosen that exact moment on purpose, because he must have super-sensed it from two rooms over.

_“It doesn’t work like that. I have to concentrate, focus on letting it in.”_

Stupid, injured, _lying_ doe-eyed Matt had told him that all these months ago. Foggy still didn’t know how it really worked.

Maybe Matt hadn’t sensed it after all. What did _he_ know? Foggy had turned around and gone back to his office with his coffee mug empty.

+-+-+-+-+

Three days they played this game.

Foggy could tell it was grating on Karen, the way she gave him the stink-eye, the way she stopped asking him whether he wanted coffee, the way she let the printouts drop carelessly on his desk. He couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

Matt—well, Foggy had stopped trying to read him. There wasn’t much interaction between them to begin with. Come to think of it, Foggy wasn’t even sure he’d seen Matt all day yesterday, even though they were both in the office. He’d heard his muffled voice through the door a few times when he discussed something with Karen.

That evening, Karen had already gone home, there was a light rap on Foggy’s closed office door. He didn’t need heightened senses to know who it was. He didn’t respond, but of course Matt opened the door anyway.

He stood there for a long moment, the sunglasses shielding his eyes from whatever conversation was going to ensue. Foggy rolled his eyes, because he was sure Matt at least couldn’t detect _that_.

“Can we talk?” Matt asked in a low voice.

Foggy went on the offensive. “Actually, I’d rather not.”

Matt’s forehead furrowed for the briefest of seconds. “Okay,” he said. And then he was gone again.

Foggy shook his head, trying to ignore the small pang in his gut.

+-+-+-+-+

The next day, Foggy stayed home for the better part of the day. He called Karen in the morning, told her he’d be working from home for the rest of the week. She knew better than to ask questions.

Some time in the afternoon, he realized he’d left a file he needed in the office. He debated going back there, decided, then undecided again. He finally caved around 9 PM, figuring the chances that Matt would still be there wouldn’t be all that high.

It turned out his instincts were pretty much craptastic, which he only realized _after_ Matt had given him half a heart attack, coming out of his dark office with a, “ Foggy?”

“Jesus!” Foggy puffed, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I just wanted to let you to know I was here.”

“Yeah, great,” he said sarcastically. “You have.”

“I scared you.” It was a statement, cause, shit, of course Matt could hear his fluttering heartbeats.

“It’s cool. I just need to get something. You can go back to ignoring me after that.”

But Matt didn’t. He followed Foggy into his office, sat down in one of the chairs. His movements were carefully controlled, that thigh must still be hurting like a bitch.

“I’m not ignoring you,” Matt said. “You’re doing all of that on your own.”

“Well, apparently I’m doing a shit job of it, cause you’re here, talking to me.”

“Are you okay?”

The question took Foggy off-guard. It was almost absurd that bullet-in-his-thigh Murdevil would ask him that.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he shot back. Not exactly meaning it, of course. But Matt would know what _that_ was like, wouldn’t he?

One corner of Matt’s mouth twitched. “I was worried, you know? When you just disappeared.”

“Well, _good_.” It came out bitter, and just a little too triumphant.

“Is that what it was? Some twisted kind of payback?” Matt’s voice was sad. He was digging around in the graves full of regret buried somewhere beneath all the rubble that their friendship had become.

“Yeah, well, at least now you know what it’s like when your best friend just up and leaves, and you have no fucking clue where he is, or what he’s doing, or if you’re ever going to see him again.”

Matt’s voice was lower yet, if that was even possible. “And you think I needed that?”

Foggy’s resentment flared back up, unbidden and just... unstoppable. “Didn’t you? After that last stunt? I mean, Christ, you were damn near bleeding out! Seriously, I don’t know why we’re even discussing this anymore, cause it feels like we’ve had this conversation a million times. We’re going around in fucking circles.”

“And what do you want me to do, Foggy?”

He huffed out a short, resentful laugh. “I don’t know, man. Nothing I can say matters to you anyway.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? You have retrograde amnesia, or something? Cause I clearly remember you stumbling through my apartment with a small caliber bullet in your leg, and I was practically begging you not to go back out there, and you just plowed right through any concern I may have ever had and right out of my door. Leaving a fucking blood trail in your wake, like I really needed the reminder. I’d say that ranks pretty low on the what-I-say-matters-to-you scale.”

Matt stayed quiet, which surprised Foggy, because he had expected another rendition of the ‘the city needs me,’ or the ‘children were dying,’ or even the ‘you don’t understand’ speech.

“Sometimes I can’t help myself,” Matt finally admitted. “I don’t like that part of me.”

Foggy shook his head, because, shit, he didn’t like that part of Matt either. Hated it, in fact. With a vengeance. He lifted his arms and let them fall by his sides so that they clapped his thighs. “And what am I supposed to do with that?”

Matt hesitated a long moment. “Stop hating me?” he finally offered.

For the first time in days, he looked at Matt, _really_ looked at him. Saw the tired lines around his mouth, the worry lines on his forehead, the long stubble that was on the verge of a full beard, the tie that was askew and had its thin end somehow too long like it was tied thoughtlessly without real effort.

“Oh, Matty,” he exhaled softly. “I’ve never hated you.”

Matt pressed his lips together, and Foggy thought maybe he was biting back tears, although it was hard to say behind the glasses.

Matt drew in a breath that was a little too shaky. “So where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” Foggy said honestly. “I think I may need some time.”

Matt nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can give you that.”

Foggy wasn’t sure how to respond, but maybe he didn’t need to. The important things had been said, hadn’t they? He shifted his weight, started looking through some of the items on his desk. He found the files he needed and put them in his bag.

Matt was fiddling with the tip of his tie, and he looked tired beyond belief. “How’s that leg?” Foggy heard himself ask.

“It’s fine.” The standard answer. The white lie.

Foggy stopped in mid-motion and looked at Matt. “You know what would help? If you started actually telling me the truth.”

It looked like he’d hit some kind of nerve, or at least something that jarred Matt. “You’re right,” he admitted. “How do you think? Claire dug a fucking bullet out of it. You were there. It hurts.”

Foggy’s mouth curved into a small smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Murdock.”

He closed his bag and walked past Matt. He almost didn’t catch it, because it was so low. “Thank you, Foggy.”

Foggy decided to ignore it, although he felt something tugging at his resistance to forgiveness. It was a first step in the right direction.

Could they ever get back to good? Foggy wasn’t sure. Maybe, provided Matt Murdock would stop being a complete and utter dickhead.

But one thing he knew after tonight. There was hope for them yet.

+-+-+-+-+


End file.
